The answer startled her. They had farmed the same land, the same crops, for generations. Why would it fail now?
“Is there nothing to be done to save the harvest?”
He looked at her intently now. “You take an interest in farming practises?”
“I take an interest in feeding my people.”
He looked at her appraisingly before answering. “Unfortunately not. It is too late in the season. Several fields have been resown with feldgrain, which may produce before winter.”
“If they don’t?”
“Then we shall all be in trouble.”
She looked out of the window. How far could she push her luck?
“You’re still shipping food to the empire.”
“I am.” His tone was sharper now. She knew to tread carefully.
“I was wondering if it wouldn’t be a good idea to keep more back.”
“No, it would not. I was sent here to oversee this county and make sure it sends the empire its dues. I would not be doing my job if I stopped sending what is owed.”
Aoife wasn’t sure in what way they could owe anything to the empire, but she could tell from his tone the conversation was over.
A thick silence settled over them, and she traced the knots of leather in her bracelet as the fields rolled by.
They rode through the grand gates of the estate, the coach wheels crunching over gravel. The drive curved along the edge of the woodland, where the light fell in thin lines between the trees. Aoife caught sight of a dark figure between the trunks, a giant shadow that seemed to be watching them, but when she looked again, there was nothing there.
Instead of driving up to the house, the coach veered around the side towards a series of ornate gardens.
The gardens were immaculate, the lawns trimmed, every border precise. Someone, or more likely several someones, spent hours here each day tending them. Aoife recognised none of the plants. They were useless things, purely decorative. No food, no medicine, only colour and vanity. To her mind, it was a waste of good earth.
They passed a garrison of soldiers running drills, thirty or more; she didn’t have time to count, but she could pick out the captain, his uniform distinctive even at this distance. Halverton watched them with pride.
“I helped select and train them myself,” he said. “You might be surprised to find they are mostly Morran men.”
“Indeed, my lord,” she said, for want of anything better to say. Did he really think she couldn’t recognise the Morran men among the ranks?
“I find the locals are more likely to listen to their own kind, and the tenants can’t hide behind their native tongue.”
Aoife said nothing.
The coach stopped, Wiren opened the door and Lord Halverton led her down a gravel path to the edge of the garden, where an ancient tree hunched against the clipped hedges. Early autumn had dulled its leaves to a tired green. Hard little berries clustered along the low branches, turning from green to blood-red. Gnarled roots spread wide into the soil, thick as knuckles as it guarded the entrance to the Otherworld.
“I hate this tree,” Halverton said. “I have tried to have it removed several times, but I can not find a single man who will do it.”
Aoife said nothing. She wasn’t surprised he’d found no one willing to fell it. To cut down a hawthorn was to invite ruin and death upon one’s family.
Halverton turned to her. “I am grateful now that it still stands,” he said. “It means you can make your oath here.”
The words unsettled her. “My oath?”
“Yes.” His tone was smooth. “An oath to the Sheedar. You are to swear that you shall never leave here.”
She stared at him. “But you don’t believe in the Sheedar.”
“That does not matter,” he said easily. “I know you do.”
